Ernest went forward, across the little park. Now he was not a particle afraid. Something in the man’s big finger and steady voice put him at his ease. Besides, this was no Indian; it was Sam Houston in Indian clothes. Truly, an astonishing meeting, but a happy one. So Ernest went forward.
“What have you there, my boy?” asked Sam Houston, referring to the haversack.
“It’s a knapsack,” replied Ernest. “I found it under the boat.”
“Whom does it belong to?”
“One of the soldiers. He lost it when the boat capsized; so I took it with me.”
“Where are the soldiers?”
“I don’t know. I guess they swam ashore while I was floating down.”
“Let me see.”
Ernest passed the haversack to him, and squatted down while Sam Houston unbuckled the flap. After all, there wasn’t much of any use in the haversack: only two pairs of socks, and a suit of underclothing, and a razor and strop, and a “housewife” or little case containing needles and thread, and several newspapers, and a tin plate and steel knife and fork and pewter spoon, and some soggy crackers or hardtack, and a cotton night-cap. None of the clothing would fit Ernest. The haversack had weighed so much because it was water-soaked.
Sam Houston stowed everything carefully back again, and buckled the flap.